


Sundays

by losersclub_gray



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King, It - All Media Types
Genre: IT Secret Santa, M/M, don’t come for me, happy boys, i love them, richie works at a record store, stanley plays piano, teen and up for cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-18 07:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13095234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losersclub_gray/pseuds/losersclub_gray
Summary: A Stozier fic for @officiallyreddie and the @itsecretsanta ! They are all amazing content creators and you should check them out! The work the @itsecretsanta admins have put into the account is phenomenal! Go send them all love!





	Sundays

**Author's Note:**

> Richie is 19, Stan is 18, it's a good old time!

Richie _hated_ Sunday’s.

He _hated_ them. They were so _slow_ and _boring_ that he’d rather die than sit there a second longer.

The work was so _not_ -tiring that it made Richie want to drive up a wall. The only thing that kept him company was the vinyls and annoying pop music since he was the only poor soul stuck on the clock on a Sunday.

Though, Richie didn’t like Friday’s or Saturday’s either. All the cool kids piled into the store, boasting about how _wonderful_ their music taste was. They’d buy their _Wham!_ and _The Human League_ , bragging about how great their party was going to be or how rockin’ their hairdo was. Richie only wished his hair was long enough to choke himself with it.

But, Sunday’s? Sunday’s were oh, so worse. They clock would just tick, and tick, and tick until you went bat-sh*t insane and _Blondie_ would hum so quietly from the front of the shop that it sounded like a ghost. No one came in the store and no one came out until Richie closed the shop at 8 every night. Richie would quit the typically-boring job, but his love for music kept him from doing so. (And the pay. And the girls.)

Richie would stare from the counter across the street into the little dance studio. He always convinced himself that he was interested in girls and _only_ girls. _Yes_ , Richie thought, _boys have better taste in music and nice voices. And nice bodies._ He watched the girls in their leotards walk inside. _But boobs! No boys can beat that._

On one of Richie’s dreaded Sunday’s, he didn’t watch his favorite pastime across the street, since they were always closed on Sunday’s. His entertainment, snatched out from underneath so he could only hear the pop crap ring from the front.

Once Richie knew that his boss had left for the day and business was oh-so obviously booming, he turned off the death-music from the front and blared _The Clash_ from behind the counter.  
He danced around the store, head-banging and air-guitaring until he threw his jacket behind the counter in a hot sweat. He kicked his feet and hit his fists on the unfilled racks, banging the beat onto the metal shelves. He jumped around the store and sung horribly, even though he had a good voice to put to use.

The song began to fade out and he gasped in little puffs of air, trying to catch his breath as he laid against a rack. The boredom had evolved into exhausted boredom and the thought made Richie want to break one of the trash records over his knee.

He walked over to the counter and kicked roughly, forgetting he was wearing steel-toed boots. “Fuck! Oh, fuck!” He screamed, the pain letting off a searing burn. He held his black boot in his hand as he jumped around, cursing and kicking his foot.

“Um, excuse me, sir?”

Richie’s head jerked over to see a curly-haired boy, at least 5’9 or a little shorter (Richie wasn’t good at estimating heights), with a Star Of David necklace hanging from his neck. “Oh my god, fuck, I’m sorry!” Richie yelled over the music. He ran behind the counter to turn it down, ignoring the pain in his foot just so he could see the cute boy that had interrupted his awfully boring Sunday.  
Once the ‘real music’ was turned down, he walked up to the boy in a the soft-looking, yellow sweater. He kicked his boot a little.

  
“Sorry, I don’t mean to curse in front of customers. It’s only ‘cuz I kicked the counter.”

“You kicked the counter?”

“Well, only because I was bored. You’re the first customer I’ve had all day.”

“You kicked the counter…because you were bored?”

“…Yes?”

“Alright then.”

 

The two stared at each other awkwardly. More so the curly-haired boy stared awkwardly, whereas Richie was practically drooling as he looked downward. The yarmulke-wearing boy interrupted Richie’s admiring stare. “I was wondering if I could get some piano music…for my mom though! I don’t…play piano.”

 _“Ha! This boy can’t lie to save his life!”_ Richie thought as looked down at his fingers. “Well, you sure do have fingers for piano playing! Or they’re good for fingering,” Richie joked, laughing as he watched the boy’s face redden.

Richie walked towards one of the shelves and began to flip through the records. “Why would you say that?” The boy asked, shyly. “Why not?” He grinned at him as he still stood by the front door. “You gonna come help me look or what?”

The boy trudged closer, and began to flick through the records, staying as far away from the vulgar adult as he could. “Y’know, I’d love to know the cute little Hebrew’s name.” Richie said as he pulled out a record and placed it under his arm, while he continued skimming through.

“It’s Stanley.” He said, regretting it as quickly as he had said it. "Stanley...Stan The Man! Stanny boy! So many nicknames to choose from Stan, you make it too easy!" Richie cackled as he put more records under his arm. "Well, I'm Richie." Stan rolled his eyes at the nicknames. "Aren't you a little too comfortable with someone you just met?" Stan quipped, playing with his necklace as he picked out an appealing record.

"It's easy for me," Richie replied, nonchalantly, "Just tell me if I'm too touchy, my friend Bill says I'm touch-starved. He's too stuffy though, so I don't know if I believe him." Richie walked towards the counter, carrying at least ten records under his arm. "I'm hoping you like _Bach_ and _Mozart_ because that's almost everything I picked." Richie teased, despite being completely honest.

"You have poor taste. _Tchaikovsky_ and _Grieg_ is where it's at." Stan laughed his own joke, but Richie's blank stare made it obvious that Richie had no idea what he was talking about. "Never mind, but you know I'm not buying all those right?" Stan said, waving his hand at the giant pile of records on the counter in front of him. "Duh. But, you have to take a record of my request as long as you promise to return it." Richie smirked. "You need to listen to some real music."

"Real music? Pftt, I'm sure you wouldn't know real music if it hit you in the face." Stan laughed, but Richie was extremely offended by Stan's comment. " _Now_ , you have to take a record of my choice and return it _after_ you've listened to it. No one insults my music taste and gets away with it." Richie said, stunningly serious. He pulled out a record from behind the counter. "This is real music and it's my favorite record of all time. Make sure you return it next Sunday, Stan The Man." He handed Stan _Seventeen Seconds_ by _The Cure_. "Who says I'll be here next Sunday?'

"Oh, you will. Plus, who else will keep me company on those dead Sundays?" Stan gave a cheerful smile as Richie rang up the three records and once Richie put the records in a bag and blatantly brushed their hands together, he watched Stan's curls bounce as he walked away. Stan could feel his heart eyes from a mile away. "Goodbye, Richie." Stan hummed as he walked out of the store. "Goodbye, Stan." Richie sighed, lovesick, and watched him walk out of the front window's view.

\----------

"Michael Hanlon, you won't believe who I met at the record store today!" Stan called as he shut his and Mike's shared apartment's door. "Who'd you meet at the record store, Stan?" Mike gave him a wholehearted smile, despite the complete disinterest in his voice. "This arrogant, trash-mouth, vulgar...kid! And, and...he must be older than me! How can someone older than me be so immature?" Stan ranted. Mike smiled at Stan's mini-fit. "Just make sure to let me know before you bring him over." Mike only walked away from a shocked Stan. "Mike! Mike! I would never! This kid is so..." Mike didn't bother listening to the rest because no one knew better than Mike that Stanley always went for the ones he was never _really_ looking for.

\----------

As much as he 'absolutely hated this trash-mouth kid,' he went back to that record store on the next Sunday, and he had listened to that album Richie had given him. When he arrived, Richie was not cursing, blaring music, or bopping around the store like he was the previous Sunday. Instead, he found him quietly snoring as he rested his head on the counter. Stanley internally bickered with himself over whether he should write his number down on the record and just walk out of the store or be a pain and wake him up. Stanley decided on the latter. 

_"Hey, ass-hat. I brought your record and it's not as shit as I expected."_

_"Hey, jerk. You're album was actually good."_

_"Hey, I liked that album."_

_"Fuck it,"_

"Hey, asshole, wake up." Stanley mumbled, gruffly. Stanley surely didn't intend to send Richie scrambling backwards in a panicked haze. He looked like a deer in headlights as he stumbled backward until he hit the wall. Stan went into his own panic at the sight. "Ohmygod, I scared you, I'm so sorry, I really didn't mean to, I only-" Richie walked around the counter so menacingly that Stanley backed into one of the record shelves just as Richie had done with the wall just seconds ago.

"I'm just glad you weren't him." Richie whispered and wrapped his arms around Stan in a tight hug. "You aren't him, you aren't him...' He repeated over and over again. He wasn't talking to Stan anymore, just repeating his mantra, as if he was trying to convince himself. Stan rubbed his back, comfortingly, but he didn't ask Richie to tell him what he was doing, what his reasoning was. 

"Richie, do you want to come to my apartment? I know you barely know me, but I promise I won't do anything you don't want me to. I'll make you some hot chocolate, you can bring some records, whatever you want. I think you need some chill time, yeah?" Stan offered, silently hoping and praying he'd say yes. After a few minutes of quiet silence and calm embrace, Richie replied. "...Yes. I-...yes."

When Richie pulled away, a little something broke inside Stanley. He felt something deep inside him pull and tug and he felt like vomiting. He was dizzy, yet he wasn't. His vision was blurry, and the only thing he could focus on was Richie. He saw Richie in tunnel vision, so he could focus on his glasses, and his hair, and only him himself. He watched him walk around the store, picking up a few records, wiping tears from his eyes, tugging on the hem of his shirt when it rode up. "Stanley, can we go now? I-I...I need to get away from here. Far away from here.

Stanley only responded by grabbing his hand and gently leading him out of the record store and down the sidewalk. "Stan, wait a second. I need to lock up the store before I actually leave." Stan's record player sung a beautiful song, one he had never heard, and his tunnel vision had yet to disappear. It played piano and someone played guitar, and rain played in the background.

Then, it all stopped, the tunnel vision and the music that played in his mind, when Richie turned around. "Can we go now?" Stan was still dazed, but he nodded and led Stanley to his car. Richie climbed into the passenger seat without any hesitation and Stan's mind wandered while he revved the engine. _"He must be in a really bad place if he's naive enough to climb into a car with a, well practically, a stranger whom he's only met once."_

"You're right, Stan The Man, I am in a bad place, and I am really naive, and yes, I am getting into car with a complete stranger, but all I want you to do right now is drive. So, _drive_." Stan was so intimidated that he drove, despite worrying about the fact that he said that out loud.

The car ride was dead silent as he guiltily thought about what he accidentally said. He mindlessly drove, and stared at the birds while his mind auto-piloted him to his apartment. When they arrived, Richie practically threw himself out of the car, yet he didn't drop a single record he had been holding. Stan wasn't phased though, and only turned off the car and hopped out himself.

Stan led him to the door and when he opened it, Richie waltzed in like he owned the place. Once he spotted the couch, he just curled up, held a pillow, and _sobbed_. Stan slammed the door behind him to run to Richie quicker, but instead of doing it more efficiently, it just made Richie cry even harder. "Rich, Rich? Do you want me to hug you? Do you want that hot chocolate? What do you-" Richie spun around and tackled Stanley into the couch by his waist.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I-"

"Don't apologize, Richie, it's okay."

So, Stanley held Richie as he cried and when Mike came home from the farm very quietly per usual, Stan only held finger to his lips and Mike didn't say a word. Stanley rubbed his back as he whimpered and whined, clutching his shirt. Stan didn't even bother pulling down the hem of Richie's own shirt after it rode up. When it sounded like Richie didn't have anymore tears to shed, Stanley grabbed some tissues off the table and handed them to Richie, who in turn blew his nose and wiped the tear streaks left on his cheeks.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Stanley whispered, comfortingly. "...Yeah," Richie's response was so quiet, Stan could barely hear it. "It was when I was a kid and bullying wasn't ridiculed like it was now. There were...there were some kids who thought I deserved the bullying. Sometimes, I think so too, like now." Stanley went to interject, to remind Richie that he didn't deserve it, no matter what it was, but Richie shushed him before he could. "I always fell asleep during class because I always stayed up late studying. I was so stupid back then, I am now too, but I studied _all_ the time trying to be smarter, trying to be better than that let-down of a son who failed his classes."

"Most of the time, my friend, Eddie, would wake me up after classes finished. He knew just how hard I tried. He was sick that day though, so I was woken up by...by those _assholes_. And when you called me an asshole when you woke me up, something went off inside and I felt so vulnerable just like I was that day. They had always bullied me for my frog-face, and my nerd glasses, and my buck teeth, but that day...that day was so much worse." Richie paused, and Stanley realized he wasn't going to continue unless he asked. "Richie, what did they do to you?" Stanley whispered, but wasn't prepared for Richie to take off his shirt. "What are you-" "Shh."

He began to point out scars and burns all over his body. He pointed to one right by his ribs, "This one is from the main bully, Henry. I stood up for Eddie that day, even though he wasn't there, so Henry kicked me so much and so hard he broke one of my ribs. I never stopped standing up for Eddie after that though." He pointed to a litter of welts on his right side. "These are from a bunch of cigarettes burns Patrick gave me. He was a real sadistic fuck though, way more than Henry was." Then, he turned around and Stanley could see large, wide scarred gashes all over his back, "And those are from Patrick, Henry, and Belch. They beat me with a belt until my friend, Bill found me. Their other friend, Vic, was mainly just a lookout and he never hurt me, but all these marks will never go away. Ever. They're constant reminders of how broken and unlovable and _disgusting_ I-" Stan turned him around so quick that he could have gotten whiplash.

"You will never, ever be unlovable, or disgusting, and if you're broken, I am determined to fix you, understand? You aren't at all disgusting and-" Richie cut him off with a chaste kiss to the lips. "You are the best Sunday I've ever had, Stanley." Richie whispered. "Y'know, trash-mouth, that's really funny because I've never gone to church." Stanley joked. Richie laughed, softly. "Yeah, me either."

So, the two were hot chocolate, and warm blankets, and gentle kisses as they watched some movies that were re-running. And all that Stanley could feel was tunnel-vision, the sound of his internal record player, and the warm, warm feeling of Richie's security.


End file.
